The Truth About De Campo (19 page)

Liyah’s gaze followed his, and for the second time in as many minutes she went weak in the knees.

Surrounded by an impressive entourage and dressed in the traditional garb of a Zeena Sahran sheikh stood the most beautiful man Liyah had ever seen. Known for his macho pursuits and outlook, despite his supreme political diplomacy, the emir wouldn’t appreciate the description, she was sure.

But regardless of...or maybe
because of
his over-six-foot height, square jaw and neatly trimmed, close-cropped facial hair, the sheikh’s masculine looks carried a beauty she’d never before encountered.

No picture she’d ever seen did him justice. Two-dimensional imagery could never catch the reality of Sheikh Sayed bin Falah al Zeena’s presence. Not his gorgeous looks or the leashed power that crackled in the air around him like electricity.

Nothing about the unadorned black
abaya
worn over Armani, burgundy
keffiyeh
on his head and black triple-stranded
egal
holding it in place expressed anything but conservative control. The Zeena Sahran color of royalty of the
keffiyeh
and three strands of the
egal,
rather than the usual two, subtly indicated his status as emir.

Wearing the traditional robe over a tailored designer suit with the head scarf implied supreme civilization. And yet, to her at least, it was obvious the blood of desert warriors ran in his veins.

The first melech of Zeena Sahra had won independence for his tribe—which later became the founding people of the emirate of Zeena Sahra—through bloody battles western history books often glossed over.

Inexplicably and undeniably drawn to the powerful man, Liyah’s feet carried her forward without her conscious thought or volition. It was only when she stood mere feet from the royal sheikh that Liyah came to an abrupt, embarrassed stop.

It was too late, though.

Sheikh Sayed’s espresso-brown gaze fell on her and remained, inquiry evident in the slight quirking of his brows.

Considered unflappable by all who knew her, Liyah couldn’t think of a single coherent thing to say, not even a simple welcome before moving on.

No, she stood there, her body reacting to his presence in a way her mother had always warned Liyah about but she had never actually experienced.

Part of her knew that he was surrounded by the people traveling with him, the Chatsfield Hotel staff and even her father, but Liyah could only see the emir. Discussion around them was nothing more than mumbling to her ears.

The signature scent of the Chatsfield—a mix of cedarwood, leather, white rose and a hint of lavender—faded and all she could smell was the emir’s spicy cologne blending with his undeniable masculine scent.

Her nipples drew tight for no discernible reason, her heart rate increasing like it only did after a particularly challenging workout and her breath came in small gasps she did her best to mask with shallow inhales.

His expression did not detectably change, but something in the depths of his dark gaze told her she was not the only one affected.

“Sheikh al Zeena, this is Amari, our chambermaid floor supervisor in charge of the harem floor and your suite,” the head of desk reception stepped in smoothly to say.

Being referred to by her last name was something Liyah was used to; meeting a crown prince was not.

However, her brain finally came back online and she managed to curl her right hand over her left fist and press them over her left breast. Bowing her head, she leaned slightly forward in a modified bow. “Emir. It is my pleasure to serve you and your companions.”

* * *

Sayed had a wholly unacceptable and unprecedented reaction to the lovely chambermaid’s words and actions.

His sex stirred, images of exactly
how
he would like her to serve him flashing through his mind in an erotic slide show of fantasies he was not aware of even having.

The rose wash over her cheeks and vulnerable, almost hungry expression in her green eyes told him those desires could be met, increasing his unexpected viscerally sexual reaction tenfold. Hidden by the fall of his
abaya,
his rapidly engorging flesh ached with unfamiliar need.

Sayed’s status as a soon-to-be-married man, not to mention melech of his country, dictated he push the images aside and ignore his body’s physical response, however. No matter how difficult he found doing so.

“Thank you, Miss Amari,” Sayed said, his tone imperious by necessity to hide his reaction to her. He indicated the woman assigned to tend his domestic needs. “This is Abdullah-Hasiba. She will let you know of any requirements we may have. Should you have any questions, they can be taken directly to her, as well.”

Miss Amari’s beautiful green gaze chilled and her full lips firmed slightly, but nothing else in her demeanor indicated a reaction to his clear dismissal.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Dipping her head again in the tradition of his people, she then turned to his servant. “I look forward to working with you Miz Abdullah-Hasiba.”

With another barely-there dip of her head, the much-too-attractive hotel employee did that thing well-trained servants were so good at and seemed to just melt away.

Sayed had a baffling and near-unstoppable urge to call her back.

Copyright © 2014 by Harlequin Books S.A.

ISBN-13: 9781460331385

THE TRUTH ABOUT DE CAMPO

Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Drogell

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